


Intertwine

by windandthestars



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Feelings, More Foreplay than Sex, They get a little rough, mentions of Nina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 02:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19220020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windandthestars/pseuds/windandthestars
Summary: “What happened to the blonde?” They’re standing in his darkened hallway, the doors of the elevator pressed closed behind her. He’s dressed in khakis and a t-shirt; he wasn’t dressed to impress. He wasn’t dressed like he’d thrown on the first thing he could see when she’d called him out of the blue from downstairs either.“She found me insufferable. We didn’t make it past drinks.”“You could keep your mouth shut.”“Right.” He says sarcastically like he couldn’t possibly have thought of that himself. “Did you need something or did you come all the way over here to check on my date?”





	Intertwine

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not quite sure what this is. I suppose it’s part thought experiment (if Wade didn’t exist, if Will wasn’t particularly interested in Nina), part study of a self-destructive impulse gone awry, and part “if they can’t admit that they love each other at least there’s sex… sort of”. There are definite spoilers for the first two season. Warnings for occasionally rough foreplay/Mac throwing things. Title from Trevor Noah’s book _Born a Crime_ “I didn’t know how easily sex and hatred and fear can intertwine.”

But you just say I'm perfect / Say I'm pretty / Say I'm worth it / But if you really care for me / Say love / I want you to say love  
— _Say Love_ , JoJo  
  

“You bailed on drinks.” At first she thinks that’s the extent of his accusation, but then his brain seems to catch up to his eyes, with the sight of her in sweats and the bucket of murky water she’d set by her feet. “You bailed on drinks to clean.”

He sounds a bit confused, incredulous and she can understand why. She’d never enjoyed the more mundane cleaning tasks, but cooped up and unemployed after Islamabad she’d discovered how cathartic a deep clean could be, scouring grout, disassembling stove burners to soak the grime off in the sink. It helped distract her. It settled her down for far longer than a drink or two ever could. Not that she didn’t still try that from time to time.

“My landlord’s stopping by later this week so I can renew my lease.”

“It’s been six months.” That seems to sober him up a bit. He’s not wasted by any means, but he’s had a couple on top of the ones he’d started with an hour or two ago. It’s pushing five o’clock now and where ever he’s been, he would’ve had time to sort his head out if he’d wanted to which is why she can’t figure out what he’s doing here.

“Did Jim give you my address?”

“No,” he shakes his head at her obviously considering how much to tell her. “Sloan has it in her phone. I peeked.”

“Will.” She says loudly, exasperated but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah. Yeah. I shouldn’t have but it’s for a good cause. I wanted to apologize, earlier. You were busy.”

“It couldn’t wait until we both got into the office?”

“I already went there. Didn’t want to go home. Too far.”

“You should go home now. I’ll call you a cab.”

“I wanted to apologize.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Only a little.”

“You need to go home and sleep it off. I need you back in the office by noon.”

“OK.” He sighs agreeing, “but I am sorry.”

“Yeah. I know.” She gestures, shooing him back down the hall a bit. Whatever it was he was sorry about, he could tell her about it after they’d both had some sleep.

*

“What happened to the blonde?” They’re standing in his darkened hallway, the doors of the elevator pressed closed behind her. He’s dressed in khakis and a t-shirt; he wasn’t dressed to impress. He wasn’t dressed like he’d thrown on the first thing he could see when she’d called him out of the blue from downstairs either.

“She found me insufferable. We didn’t make it past drinks.”

“You could keep your mouth shut.”

“Right.” He says sarcastically like he couldn’t possibly have thought of that himself. “Did you need something or did you come all the way over here to check on my date?”

She hadn’t, although a small part of her had considered that she might in fact be doing just that, had considered what she might feel if she somehow found them in bed together, the doctor-lawyer-politician, but he didn’t belong to her anymore, had never belonged to her like that, so she doesn’t tell him, doesn’t tell him that he’s slowly killing her from the inside out and that one day she’ll wake up numb, finally. Finally and yet, the thought of that terrifies her.

*

She’d never asked him what he’d wanted to apologize for and he hasn’t brought it up again, but she has a pretty good idea what it was he’d wanted to say standing in his living room three months later with yet another glass of Jameson in her hand.

She’s not drunk, neither is he but they’re both a little buzzed, both a little languid and more than a little morose, basking in the shared tragedy of being alone on Valentine’s Day, although that was intentional on both their parts she knew that.

“Remember that time we went stargazing?”

She doesn’t know what that has to do with the holiday or with their current topic of conversation whatever that had happened to be. She’s pretty sure they’d both lost the thread half an hour ago and had been wandering separately through their shared memories since then.

“Oh god, that was horrible.” She snorts a bit, relieved she’d managed to swallow first and turns toward where he’s standing at the windows.

“It wasn’t so bad.”

“It was freezing.”

“For a while.”

“Yeah.” She keeps the word short, clipped, so he doesn’t get any ideas, doesn’t think too hard about what they’d done to stay warm, but that seems to be a wasted effort because he’s already turned to smile at her.

“We’ve both been drinking.” She reminds him, hoping as much as she isn’t that that’ll deter him, because however complicated her feelings are, her body certainly has other thoughts, had always had other thoughts, which was why she was here, alone, always alone on the days when it mattered, when she shouldn’t, couldn’t stand to be alone.

“I make all of my stupidest mistakes sober.” He sounds so secure in that knowledge, so content in knowing he was right, but she wasn’t sure she could say the same, not when she knew what they were going to do, not when she’d made up her mind to let it happen after she’d found out he’d wired the money to free Khalid. She didn’t owe him this, she wasn’t deluded. She didn’t owe him anything, but she owed it to herself to try, to win him back, to prove to herself he wanted her, that he didn’t want her, to break her heart cleanly in two so maybe this time she could stitch it back together. Either way it didn’t matter. She’d seen something other than anger in his eyes tonight and she’d decided to try.

“In that case.” She walks over to set her glass on his end table, putting herself between him and the couch, between him and the easiest way out. “You’re not going to find anything out there with all those damn lights.”

*

She was going to shove him in a cab and send him home, but it’s four in the morning and he’s still high, too high not to end up wandering around somewhere, so she thinks better of it and slides in beside him, shoving at him when he doesn’t move over far enough to let her shut the door.

“Two Hudson Street.” She tells the cab driver and then yawns mouth half covered, frowning at Will, at the way he’s staring at her. “I have nice tonsils.” She suggests but he stays silent watching her and she doesn’t bother demanding a response.

“I love you.” They’re halfway down Seventh when he finally decides to say something.

“You need to drink some water.”

“Mac—”

“I’m serious.” She fills in, knowing she sounds bored.

“Yes.”

“All right.”

“You were spectacular.”

“Will.” She sighs. “Shut up.”

“I need to tell you something.” He starts up again in the elevator and she almost groans. “But I don’t know how to—”

“You’re in love with me.”

“Yes.” He agrees brightly, face lighting up and she has to stop herself from groaning.

“You’re so high you can’t feel your face.”

“That might be the Vico—”

“You love everyone right now.”

“No.” He starts to protest but she’s already herding him out of the elevator into his apartment.

“Drink some water, take some Tylenol, I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

“Mac—”

“Good night, Will.”

*

“I meant it.” He says and she knows she hasn’t drunk enough to be misconstruing what he’s saying. They’d been talking about bin Laden, about that night, about the pot he’d just offered her without so much as a shrug. It wouldn’t be the first time. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d gotten high with him, it would however be the first time she’d let her guard down with him like that since he’d opened his mouth and said— 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She grins at him. It’s fake and forced, but she can see him take a mental step back, reconsidering.

“You think I’m fucking with you.”

“Normally when that happens one of us is wearing less clothes.” She remarks dryly.

She hated herself when she was like this, when she got scared, and terrified, and didn’t know what to say, because ‘you hurt me’ never got her anywhere and ‘I’m hurting’ was never any better.

She wants to believe him, but she doesn’t know if she’s stupid enough to let herself, doesn’t know if she can, if it only comes up when they’re drunk or he’s high and one or both of them wants to apologize for something, for being the one that was causing the hurt to themselves, to someone else. She wants to believe him, but she hasn’t drunk enough to believe that she should.

*

She’d thrown a book at his head, that should have put an end to things. Casey Anthony on Friday should have put an end to things, but she’d shown up here anyway. She hadn’t stopped herself then and she wasn’t stopping herself now, even if he is a little rough, a little angry about the book, about the way it had whistled past his ear. She didn’t throw things, but then again he didn’t shove women up against walls, certainly not hard enough to bruise his knuckles when her head knocked back colliding with his hand and his hand with the wall, but she had and he did and the last thing she wanted was for him to stop. She wanted the excuse to rake her nails down his back and he didn’t seem to care that she was furious with him, with herself and the whole goddamn thing.

She knew she had to be careful not to lose her head completely. She’d pay for it later when he forgot and itched at his back, scratched and ended up with blood on his white shirt five minutes before they went on air, or when she had to justify the extra dry cleaning bill to herself because they’d managed to rend the side of her skirt, leave a gaping hole in the seam beside her hip because they’d both been too impatient to bother with the clasp and zipper.

She had to be careful, although she’d still pay for it, for this, somehow, she always did, justifying it, twisting herself into knots to explain, but right now she doesn’t care, she’s pissed and sick of the explanations, the excuses. She wanted this, wanted this enough that she’s willing to forgive him Casey Anthony to feel the way his chest rises and falls under her when he sighs and she laughs, relieved, ear pressed to his chest.

*

“You still alive?” He grunts something that sounds like he agrees, but she’s not satisfied that’s enough of an answer. “You haven’t died on me have you?”

“No.” He shifts to lean his head against the back of the couch and cracks open an eye as she rounds the corner from the hall. “I don’t remember giving you a key.”

“I had one made.”

“Of course you did.”

At first she thinks he’s going to let her go wandering around unperturbed but she’s barely opened the fridge before she hears him come to join her.

“You’re supposed to eat that.” She knocks a container of chicken soup with the back of her hand then starts sliding in the groceries she’d picked up.

“I didn’t know I’d hired a personal shopper.”

She doesn’t answer, knowing ‘I didn’t know you were going to try and kill yourself with antidepressants’ might slip out of her mouth.

“I’m not eating that.”

“Current medical research suggests that a diet high in—”

“I was there.”

“Fiber especially fruits and vegetables.”

“Mac.”

“Fine.” She knocks the fridge shut with her foot before opening a random cabinet to shove the plastic bags in before heading toward the bathroom, Will at her heels.

“They let you pick up my prescription?”

“I set it up for you.”

“And made sure they’d let you— you’re counting them.”

“You have six left.”

“How many should I have?”

“Six. I bought you more pepcid too.”

“You want to count the Effexor while you’re at it?”

“That’s none of my business.”

He seems to think she disagrees. She disagrees with that and at some point she slaps him. She’d lost her head a little bit but she hadn’t meant to hit him, not clean across the face but she had. She should feel sorry for that, but she’s still too furious with him to care and he doesn’t seem to mind.

He works his jaw, hands at his side, considering her and then he grabs her, rough hands on her arms shoving her toward the bed.

They weren’t violent like this, neither of them were, neither of them had been, but she’s furious in a way she can’t put into words, twisting and gasping when they plow into the mattress.

She’s pinned between him and the bed, her arms behind her back so there’s no way for her to reach him, no way to kick him either she discovers when she tries.

“Better?” He asks in a voice that suggests he really is wondering and she screams into the mattress in frustration when she realizes he’s not going to let her up. 

She would’ve expected it to be a vulnerable feeling, a naked one, being trapped like this, held down even if she’s not being smothered. It helps though, eases the tension and she grunts hoping that that’s enough of an answer, but he’s not interested in anything but the most civil reply so she struggles and gasps until she’s worn herself out enough to take the edge off her anger.

When they’re done, when she finally stops fighting him he slips away and she hears him in the shower, humming to himself in a way that feels so painfully nostalgic that she has to bite her lip hard enough to make it bleed to stop herself from crying.

She wants to cry. Desperately. It’s a raw feeling, one too honest, too sharp to be experiencing when he was around, but they’d both survived without imploding and she wasn’t going to ruin that slinking off like some sort of ashamed hussy, sniveling and crying for him to see because she’d never make it out the door by the time he was done in the shower, her limbs felt too heavy, too disconnected for her to make a clean exit, so she’s where he’d left her, face down on the bed, when he comes back. 

She’s expecting him to say something but he’s quiet, dragging a blanket down around her before he lays down, settling his hand on the back of her head.

He falls asleep. Worn out it seems to take him only seconds, so she lays there silently, tears slipping down her cheeks until she’s worn out too, stumbling through the darkened apartment headed for the door.

*

She doesn’t bother throwing the drink in his face, she figures there were enough women around to do that for her, but she does dump it in his lap, turns the glass upside down and drops it so that he has to grab it before he can jump to his feet.

“Mac.” 

She’d seen the way his hand had shot out to grab her, stop her, so she freezes for a second. She’s still pissed, but not enough to make a scene.

“I thought about hitting you upside the head.”

“I thought so.” He has the good grace to hide his smile as he follows her farther into the bar.

“What the fuck got into you tonight?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” She sure of that. If he’d been sorry, if he’d been hoping to apologize he would’ve gone home instead of coming here where he thought she wouldn’t find him.

“You’re right. I don’t care.”

“Because you were taken off the 9/11 coverage?”

“Jesus, Mac, I used to be exactly the person that you wanted to see in these moments.”

She scoffs a bit, shakes her head when she sees how completely he’s bought into the idea that he’s not. “You still are.”

“I remind people of the enemy?” He gestures angrily and then sighs. “There was a time you’d try to make me laugh about things like this.”

“Don’t you have someone— what happened to tall, leggy and blonde?”

“Turns out I prefer brunettes.”

“Huh.” She fakes a frown and he shrugs.

“I assume you’re here to tell me to go home.”

“I’m here to tell you to stop being an idiot.”

*

They’re all supposed to go out for drinks after they’re off the air but Will isn’t there so she slips out and heads to his place.

“You’re not going to throw this at me?” He asks her immediately, standing in front of the opening elevator doors with a glass in his hand.

“No.” She frowns at him wondering how long he’d been waiting for her to show up.

“Feel like smacking someone?” He sounds less enthusiastic about her potential reply to this particular question.

“No.” She says a little tersely although she knows he’s only being cautious. It wasn’t like her to show up like this, unannounced, when she had other plans, when she’d always made it clear she had a life outside of work, outside of this, outside of him, and he’d never questioned that, never asked her about it either. She volunteered what she wanted, when she wanted, and he never asked her for anything else.

“You’re a coward.” She offers accepting the drink and he waits impassively to see if she’s done.

“You won’t accept that anyone,” she pauses when he raises his eyebrows seeming to know where she’s going with this, “anyone else, could have any sort of faith in—”

“Strictly speaking, a belief in god—”

“Shut up.” She sighs at him. She isn’t pissed, she understands to an extent where he’s coming from, but she is concerned for him and the show, and it’s making her testy. She isn’t in the mood for whatever jokes he feels like making.

“Someone has to investigate the administration’s counterterrorism,” he stops when he sees the look on her face, the sudden confusion, not at the rapid swing in conversation, they both had a fondness for that, but at the legal pad she’s spotted sitting on the table at the end of the hall as he backs up and she follows.

“Tomorrow night’s copy.” He agrees to her unspoken assessment. “It’s a demand to see the memorandum.”

“It’s,” she falters for a second narrowing her eyes and accepting the pad when he hands it to her. “You fucking idiot.”

*

He’s halfway through her office door when Sloan stops him a hand on her neck. “Who got a cat?”

Will raises a hand to his neck confused and Mac almost smirks at the sight. He’d forgotten. She’d raked her nails down his throat a couple of times and caught a nail once when he’d tried to turn his head. It hadn’t been intentional, she’d been teasing him, goading him a bit because he’d still been a bit conciliatory after she’d complained about having to miss drinks because he hadn’t bothered to call her and fill her in. She’d asked him to confess his idiocracy, because she’d been right and she’d wanted to hear him say it, and he had, eventually, apologized even if they’d both been smirking, his fingers still ghosting over his battered skin.

She’d scratched him and he’d kissed her, told her not to worry about it, told her she’d been right and he was sorry, even if there had been more kisses than words, even if the apology had been something she’d felt rather than heard.

*

“How’s Nina?” It’s one of the offhand comments she’s been prone to lately.

“Nina?”

“Howard.” She leans back against the edge of his desk clarifying and he glances over at her obviously unamused.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“No?” She gives him a moment to reconsider as he lights up, cigarette dangling between two fingers as she tosses the open magazine onto his lap.

He looks down at it for a moment, impassive, then snorts, flicks his lighter back open, sets his cigarette in the ashtray, picks up the tabloid and sets the corner alight before dropping it into the wastepaper basket and resuming his smoking, the photos of him with Nina blackening.

“Does she know?”

“I’m impressed.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“She knows there’s someone, but not.” You, he doesn’t finish although she knows that’s what he’s implying. “It’s an ill-advised tryst. I knew that before,” he gestures toward the smoldering magazine.

“But it’s full steam ahead?”

He shrugs.

“So you’re sleeping with her?”

“I told you,” he cuts himself off and she wonders at the gentleness of the statement, the tender way he forms the words and she looks away trying to hide the way she scoffs at the idea of him having feelings for Nina. It feels ludicrous even considering his former parade of women, especially considering his former parade. She wasn’t heartless, she wasn’t lecherous, even if Mac would prefer she was, even if Mac would prefer she wasn’t beautiful, blonde and intelligent. “You don’t have to worry about Nina.”

“Just keep it out of the press.” She warns him in case he feels the need to try and explain because she isn’t interested, shouldn’t be interested, shouldn’t ask because he’s always given her that same courtesy.

“Yeah.” He frowns a little, still looking like he wants to say something.

“And put that out before you set off the alarm, she moves closer to kick the side of his trash can before moving back toward the door. “I’m wearing new shoes and it’s raining. I’m not evacuating the building. I don’t care how many alarms you set off.”

*

She’d known when she’d opened the box, the one covered with the logo of her favorite boutique, that he’d bought her a dress and that he’d want her to wear it, but she hadn’t considered the possibility that dinner would be part of the deal. They’d stuck with safe gifts, familiar not intimate, socks and books and packets of novel snacks: chocolate covered popcorn, orange cranberry toffee. And then there had been the dress, which she loved, objectively she had to admit that, but it still set her head spinning the idea of it, the idea of dinner.

The dinner she spent inebriated. It’d taken several glasses of wine before she’d let herself laugh at his jokes. There had been an odd nervousness twisting in her stomach when they’d arrived and she’d needed the excuse to let her guard down even if it’d been months since she’d needed the pretense.

She’d needed the pretense so she giggles her way through dinner and dessert and doesn’t question why he insists on seeing her home, why he follows her up. He hasn’t been inside her apartment since the midterms but he doesn’t have a problem finding the bedroom as they stumble through her apartment, clumsy and clingy.

She’s drunk more than she should, but she’s set enough of a precedent, they both have, that she’s not worried about him coming to his senses. She knows once he’s here, in her bed he won’t leave, she was always the one leaving, she’d established that rule when she’d disappeared off to Iraq, when she kept disappearing in the middle of the night.

She won’t have worry about that. She won’t have to worry about anything until the morning, but she’s not particularly concerned with that right now either, not when she’s laughing earnestly, the giddiness she’d been hiding from bubbling up for the first time since the cab had pulled up to Per Se.

“Kiss me.” She demands when his lips slide away from hers down her neck and he stops, tipping his face up toward hers so his lips skirt hers, so her fingers curl, tugging at the collar of his shirt, at the small of his back. “Kiss me.”

*

She feels his arm snug at her waist and sighs, squirms, but he doesn’t move and she sighs again, plucks at his arm, but he’s out cold or so she thinks until she tries to slip away and she feels his arm tense, feels him pull himself closer when she strains against his hold.

“I have to go.” She hisses at him knowing that whatever state of wakefulness he’s in sounding conciliatory or offhand would only weaken her argument.

“Not now.”

“Yes.” She insists. “Now.”

“Emergency?”

“No.” She admits reluctantly knowing his follow up would be to ask for details she doesn’t have. “I have to go.”

“Stay.”

She still can’t tell by his tone of voice if he’s actually awake, his voice is even, but low, deeper given the hour and the fact she knows he couldn’t have been awake for very long.

“I have to go. It’s what I do.” She reminds him like that might make a difference and his arm relaxes so he’s holding her passively while he considers that fact.

“If that’s what you want.” He decides even as his arm doesn’t move and she has to stop herself from snapping at him, saying something biting as she slides out from under its weight.

Her clothes aren’t where she’s expecting them to be, so it takes a bit of searching to locate them.

“Your bra’s behind the door.” He offers helpfully as she’s casting around looking for it and she stops to glance over at him, at the way he’s sitting up in bed watching her.

“I thought you wanted me to stay.” She can’t help but observe, but he doesn’t seem bothered by the comment. He almost seems to be expecting it.

“Only if you want to.”

“Mmm.” She grunts, but she knows he knows she’s annoyed, that she never knew what to do with comments like that, never knew what if anything she was supposed to say, so most of the time she doesn’t say anything. 

She doesn’t say anything dressing quickly in the corner, smoothing out her hair until she realizes, “I’m missing an earring.”

“Which one?”

She can hear him getting up as she looks around, looks down at her feet hoping to spot it there.

“Which one?” He asks again and she looks up to frown at him, puzzled as to why that matters even as his fingers brush her jaw, tuck her hair behind her ear.

“You still have one.”

“I know that.” She sighs, turning away to make her way through his apartment. She’d had them both when she’d gotten here. They were longer and heavier than the earrings she was used to wearing, so she’d noticed the way they’d moved as she’d walked.

She hadn’t been in the kitchen but she’s tempted to look there when her cursory search of the living room doesn’t turn up anything.

“I’ll get it back to you when I find it.” Will offers, still trailing along behind her, not so much looking, she knows, as watching her look.

“Unless you find it in your bed.” It’s a little sharp as irritated as she is by the delay, but she’s still surprised when he doesn’t say anything, when his reply a moment later is confused.

“What?”

“You think Nina’s the kind of woman who won’t mind finding someone else’s earring in your bed?”

“Why would—” He sighs the kind of sigh that means he’s realized he’s an idiot so she stops and turns around to watch him.

“We broke up. Last week. She said some shit about the numbers at dinner and I— We broke up.”

“She dumped you.” Mac manages with a note of levity and he shakes his head.

“If it matters, I dumped her.”

“You dumped her.” She knows she sounds amused by the fact, sounds like she cares more than she does because it wasn’t any of her business who he slept with.

“Have you checked the hall? For your earring.” He clarifies when she doesn’t immediately reply.

He knows she hadn’t. He’s been following her the whole time she’s been looking, but she doesn’t bother pointing that out and loops around the living room and into the hall instead, flicking on lights as she goes.

“Right there.” He says, stopped at the end of the hall and she glances over at him before casting about by her feet. “By the wall. Where the baseboard’s dinged up.”

There’s a gouge in the moulding, she can see it even before she bends down, cream colored wood visible against the white paint. Her earring is harder to spot, it’s dark like the floor, laid out in the shadows, dull without the light to catch her eye.

“Yeah.” She says scooping it up as she straightens.

“We tend to stop there.” He shrugs when she turns back toward him already tugging at her ear to slip the earring into place.

“We do?” It’s a question that sounds more like agreement so she doesn’t bother correcting herself even when he seems amused by the idea.

“Some day you’re going to put a hole in my wall.”

“It’s concrete.”

“I didn’t think you’d put a hole in the moulding.”

“It’s a gouge. I was wearing stilettos.”

“Last night anway.”

Last night, like it’s happened before, like she’d gone out for drinks with Don, with someone, anyone, and then showed up here after. She hadn’t, but she and Will had, had been showing up here more and more frequently in recent weeks.

She’d showed up and put a gouge in his wall and he isn’t surprised. He isn’t bothered. She isn’t sure what to make of that.

*

He’s disoriented when she calls, woken suddenly by the sound of his phone ringing, loud in his empty apartment. He’s disoriented, but not as much as she is.

“Will?” She says in such a frantic whisper that he almost doesn’t recognize her voice.

“Mac?”

“What are we doing?”

“You’re outside.” He isn’t totally sure that she is, but he can hear traffic and he’s not entirely sure she’s up for answering questions right now.

“Yeah.” She sniffs and he looks up silently cursing.

“What street are you on?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you see the corner.”

“SoHo.” She says and he sighs.

“Walk over and read me the street signs, can you do that?”

“I’m in SoHo.” She repeats sounding more sure of herself this time but also like things inside her head are moving a little too slow, like she’s had a little too much to drink.

“Which streets?” He asks again patiently and he hears her exhale, laugh a little before she replies.

“Church and Worth. There’s a law school across the street.” She adds after a moment realizing that might be helpful information.

She’s farther south than she seems to realize, although he wouldn’t be surprised if her mental map of the city’s neighborhoods was as hazy as her sense of direction, but even knowing that doesn’t help him. He’s not entirely sure exactly where she is either, the law school was on Broadway, although it could butt up against Church, that was possible, so he has her walk south, asks her for landmarks for a block and a half until he’s sure of where she is while he holds his phone between shoulder and ear, yanking on a pair of pants and some shoes so that he’s standing out on the street in front of his building when he tells her to turn right down Reade and he can see her, shoulders down, hurrying up the street oblivious to where she is until he says “Mac”, raises his voice a little so she looks up started by the echo, her phone still held to her ear.

“Hey.” He says when she gets a little closer and she smiles, smiles the smile that says nothing is OK but she’s trying to pretend that it is.

“Some douchebag bought me drinks.”

“Bought you quite a few.” He agrees when she bumps up against him, leans into him so that he has to wrap his arm around her shoulder to usher her inside.

“It’s all fucked up.” She says and then sighs. “We’re going to get fired.” She seems heartened by the idea, although possibly that’s all it is, the idea, the idea of penance and absolution. He’d spent a lot of time thinking he hated her, when really he’d hated the fact that he didn’t hate her because that would’ve been easier. Mac had just hated herself, hates herself for this anyway. He’d known that when they’d gone on the air on Tuesday but he’d still let her insist that she was fine and she’d seemed all right, for a while, until tonight. It’d taken three days for him to realize she’d been lying.

“We’ll get you into bed.” He promises gently although he knows she doesn’t care. She hadn’t called him to take care of her, to ask this of him. She’d gotten drunk and woken up in a nightmare.

“I left the bar.” She tells him as he steps back into his apartment, “and I called you.”

“Yeah.” He agrees and she sighs a little, pouts a little.

“Why?”

“You’re not enjoying this?” He teases, not at all surprised when she smiles.

“I’m so fucking drunk. I shouldn’t have.”

“No.” He agrees steering her over to the end of the bed, “but it’s Friday and the water’s free as far as you’re concerned. There’s a toilet, a shower, and an unending supply of drinking water each within five feet of the other. Drink some water, get some sleep. You can tell me about the douchebag in the morning.”

“But—” she protest even though he knows there’s nothing coming after that, she’s already lost the thread, frowning at his comforter, wrinkled and bunched up from where he’d been sleeping.

“I’ll tuck you in.” He offers and he does, pulling the comforter up under her chin, settling it in around her shoulders until she sighs, eyes already closed, half asleep.

He knows there’s a chance she’ll be up in a couple of hours when the alcohol starts wearing off but he’s not entirely surprised that it’s pushing noon by the time she appears in the kitchen rumpled and dazed looking.

“Breakfast?” He asks, “or would lunch be better?”

“Lunch?” He sees her eyes flick over to the clock on the microwave, watches the panic appear.

“It’s Saturday. You didn’t sleep through the weekend.” He reminds her gently, but he can see that it’s come across a little barbed because while she isn’t worried, isn’t panicked by the thought of being late, and hungover, to work, she isn’t smiling.

“I’m sorry about last night.”

He isn’t sure what she’s apologizing for and she clearly isn’t either, but there must be something, he figures, to explain how guilty she looks. It certainly wasn’t the drinking, or the fact that she called him, and he doubted it had anything to do with work; she hadn’t been awake long enough to berate herself for that.

“It’s all right. Eggs Benedict or should I thaw out some salmon?”

*

“Fire me.” She figures she should’ve waited until he’d actually made it through the door of her apartment to turn around and start making demands, but she’d been waiting all day for someone to finally tell her she could go and she’s sick of waiting.

“I’m not firing you.”

“You’re the only one who can.” 

“I know it’s been a miserable—”

“No you don’t—”

“MacKenzie.” He says with more patience than she knows he must have. “Mac.” He cuts her off again. He’s obviously not listening. He’s not interested. That should make her furious, but there’s something about the way that’s he’s watching her that keeps her temper in check. 

“I know things can’t get much worse—”

She scoffs at that loudly enough that he stops, waits to see if she’ll say something else.

“You could tell me the ring is a joke. Tell me you really don’t give a fuck. That would do it.” She turns away, brushing the words off, unwilling to admit that the lump in her throat is back. He’s been different lately, softer, and she knows she hasn’t been imagining it, hasn’t been wishing it into reality, but that doesn’t mean it meant anything. He wasn’t a bad guy, but if he was just being kind, if he didn’t mean anything by it, she didn’t want to know, not tonight.

“It wasn’t a joke.”

She hears him shuffling around, hears the whisper of leather on leather and the sound of him stepping closer. “I didn’t return it. It wasn’t a joke. I didn’t return it.” He insists again and she turns enough to glance over her shoulder at him, takes in the sight of the blue box in his hands.

“And you’ve just been carrying it around.”

“I kept it in my desk. I thought— if we were going to get fired I didn’t want you to find it when we were packing up. That wouldn’t have, that wouldn’t have been right.”

“But this is?” She’s still looking at the box. She hasn’t taken her eyes off it she realizes and turns away.

“No,” he says and then again, “no, but I can’t— you, I— I didn’t want you thinking, not tonight. I couldn’t bear the thought of—”

“That’s great.” She cuts him off dryly. Angry she knows it screams, and not angry in a way he’s willing to deal with either, but she doesn’t care, not right now. “If you want to fix things fire me.”

“Mac—”

“I’m serious. Now is not the fucking time to ask me to marry you.”

She’s not sure how they get from there to the bed, to the feeling of his weight on her and her body limp, the sound of her breathing loud as she sinks into the mattress. She isn’t struggling, she’d given up on that, felt her resolve drop through the floor at her feet when she’d turned around and seen the look on his face, the hurt he hadn’t been able to hide.

She’s the one that’s hurting now, crying because of what she’d said, because of how much she’d wanted that not to be true. She hadn’t meant to say it, had only hoped that he might love her like he’d told her he did so many times. She wanted him to ask her; she didn’t give a fuck if he asked her now, but he wouldn’t, not anymore, she knew that. He’d fire her and she’d leave and maybe then she could stop trying to find ways to ask him to forgive her, because he didn’t hate her, she knew that, but that didn’t mean he loved her.

“I’m sorry.” She finds herself whispering, begging almost because he isn’t saying anything and she can’t see his face. “Please.”

“It was never a joke.” He says finally, softly and she presses her eyes shut, feels his fingers on her cheeks. “This entire time you thought it was a joke. A cruel fucked up joke.”

It’s not accusatory but she still can’t face the words, can’t imagine untangling them, so she presses her mouth shut and tries to stop the sobs from bubbling up.

“Oh MacKenzie,” she hears him whisper, feels his weight shift off her and she turns, curls up on her side so she can press her face into the mattress.

*

“You’re an ass.” Last night, the vulnerability of it sits too heavily on her shoulders for this to be a good idea. She has a hundred other things to be worried about, more pressing issues than Will and his dating history, his insistence that his feeling were unchanged, as if the fact he loved her could somehow rewind the last several years.

“What did I do?”

She spins the ring box on the counter next to her plate. She’d refused to put the ring on, would still refuse if he asked her again, but she hadn’t said no. She hadn’t exactly said yes either, she hadn’t answered that question at all, but she had opened the box a couple of times, peeked, let the emotion choke her, then snapped the top shut again.

“You had it the entire time you were with her.”

“With who?”

“Nina.”

“Nina?”

She takes another bite of her toast considering him calmly. “While you were fucking her.”

“Once.”

“What?”

“Once. I slept with her once.” He clarifies determined as she swallows and gulps down a considerable amount of water to stop herself from choking. “After the first time, after I told you, after I saw the look on your face, we never.”

“But you were seeing her.” It’s not as defiant as she wants it to be, it sounds more like a question than anything else.

“We went out to dinner every once in awhile.”

“Sure.”

“We both wanted the company.”

“You wanted the company?” She’s beginning to sound incredulous now, beginning to feel like maybe they’re back on familiar, if not entirely solid, ground.

“I didn’t want to ask you. You looked so miserable at New Years and I can’t exactly take a beautiful woman to McDonalds without getting harangued in the press.”

“You couldn’t have told me that?”

“I’m an idiot of epic proportions.” He tries to offer her the joke, but she’s too overwhelmed by the flush of anger washing over her to register anything close to amusement.

“What fucking planet do you live on? What the hell do you mean—” She stops when the second, slightly calmer sounding option doesn’t sound any less accusatory than the first. “I was miserable?”

“You got spectacularly drunk at record speed.” 

“I was terrified. Of fucking up, of messing up the dinner and everything else. A three star restaurant isn’t exactly a low pressure environment.” She finishes and then sags a bit, spent, realizing suddenly how much she hasn’t been saying, how confused he must be.

“I thought—” He says quietly and then quieter still, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” She says but that’s quiet too.

“I wish I’d realized you didn’t know I was serious.”

“You were high, drunk.” She insists, but the anger’s gone and the words ache.

“In the beginning, it was so hard to say— you deserved, deserve better than that. I was,” he stops for a moment to step into the kitchen, away from the door where he’d been standing. A moment ago it would’ve felt crowded, this cramped narrow space with the two of them in it, but now she doesn’t mind. He’s closer and the door is clear; she’s not sure which one is responsible for the rush of relief she feels. “I was afraid to lose what we did have. It’s a poor excuse, but,” he shakes his head at himself.

“You thought I—” She starts but she doesn’t know where she wants that to go, doesn’t know where she wants this conversation to go or where it might be going.

“Might wake up one day and realize I couldn’t stop hurting you.”

“That’s,” bullshit she wants to say, but she can see how he could think that, how he might blame himself, lay the responsibility squarely on his own shoulders like she hadn’t done this to herself, hadn’t— “that’s not right. That’s not how—”

She frowns and he nods. There’s a part of her that wants to let it all go, but she can’t, she can’t let go and neither can he and maybe that’s why she asks although she isn’t sure. It takes her a while, takes her the rest of the day, so that they’re standing in hair and makeup on a break and not in her kitchen, but the curiosity’s there, so even though she might not know why, she asks to see it again. 

She knows he has it. He wouldn’t let it out of his sight, not anymore, not when she might want it, so she asks and he sets the box on the counter beside her, watching the way she peers at it.

She tries it on her left hand, tries it on her right, she slips it on and off different fingers, considering. She’s half expecting him to say something, but he’s impassive, being patient.

“I,” she frowns at her hand, fingers splayed and sighs at the way the ring slides around her finger.

“You know,” he says stepping closer, moving closer until he’s brushing up beside her. “We could get a spacer, or,” he reaches to take her hand, slide the ring off, before picking up her other hand, plucking it from beside her thigh. “I heard a rumor it might fit better over here.”

He slides it onto her ring finger and grins at her but it’s not a love sick adoring smile, it’s the kind that holds a promise. His lips brush the tips of her fingers in butterfly kisses until he nips at the second to last one, scrapes his teeth against her knuckle to watch the way she swallows automatically, lips parting, before she draws her bottom lip in waiting to see what he’ll do next.

“Now’s not the time to prove it.” He grins at her again, this one more self-assured, insinuating. “Later though.”

*

Later comes unexpectedly. Later appears when she’s in her pajamas about to slip into bed when someone knocks on her door. She doesn’t ask who, she knows it must be Will, knows he’s managed to slip in the front door in the middle of the night somehow, because he’d promised her later and he’s here with a bunch of flowers, nothing fancy, just something nice enough to raise her eyebrows.

“They’re for Jim. Not _for_ him.” Will clarifies when her eyebrows don’t settle. “I never got down on one knee. I had to do something romantic so he doesn’t murder me in my sleep.”

“You really think he’s that kind of guy?”

“The murdering kind?” Will asks with a smile and she grabs the bouquet to smack him with it as she backs up to let him in the door.

“The protective type.”

“With you?” Will looks tempted to roll his eyes. “You forgot to switch your mic off. His whispering isn’t quiet when he’s that close to you.”

“Fuck.” She’s not nearly as upset as the statement would imply, she’s more tired and irritated with herself than she is angry, but the reminder chaffs in a way she hadn’t been expecting because Jim had asked her about the ring, the ring she’d forgotten to take off before she’d gone back to the control room.

You know what the rumor mill is like, he’d leaned in to whisper and for a minute she hadn’t known what he’d meant, what he’d been referring to, but then her fingers had found the band, twisted it, worked it around her finger. It’d felt almost habitual, it’d felt comfortable until she’d realized that he’d noticed, that that’s what he’d meant.

He’d offered to make an announcement, let everyone know more discreetly if that’s what she preferred. She wonders how much of that Will had heard, if that’s what had prompted the gesture on his part or if the fact she’d forgotten, for a second, about the ring had been enough.

“I don’t know if the ring fits.” She’s challenging him and he knows it but that doesn’t seem to bother him.

“Let me see.”

She holds up her hand and he takes it in his, presses their palms together and leans closer, taking an honest look, playing at being serious, because he isn’t serious, he can’t be when he kisses the back of her hand, raising his eyes toward hers.

He’s not asking permission, it’s a dare. The same dare that’s kept her hanging on for this long. _Let me show you._ Love or lust, she hadn’t bothered to try and untangle the two, hadn’t honestly wanted to know. Lying to herself had been easier that way, but now she sees the warmth under the obvious longing.

“I’ve been thinking about your furniture all night.” He says still watching her with the same slow grin. 

She scoffs at that, almost drawing out an eww, teasing, just to see what he makes of that, but he’s too intent on watching her, even with the way his teeth scrape her knuckles.

“Subterfuge through seduction?” She queries swallowing audibly and his eyebrows rise. “I can’t think straight when you do that.” She complains when he hasn’t stopped, when she still can’t find an answer to the question she knows he’s asking.

“Should I stop?”

“God no.” Slips out along with, “yes,” along with “I,” and he chuckles and straightens up to wind his arms around her waist keeping close.

“I’d get down on my knees but I don’t want to give you any ideas.”

“Oh fuck you.” She shoots back but she’s laughing, surprising herself. “Don’t do that. I don’t want to think about that.”

It’s a suddenly vulnerable feeling realizing what she’s just said but he’s impassive, unaffected.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

“Burn the receipt?”

“You already— yes.” She pouts a little and he smiles.

“Throw the box in the Hudson?”

“Will.”

“I’m teasing.”

She knows he is; she’s not asking him to stop. She’s just not sure how to tell him what he wants to hear. “I didn’t take it off when Jim asked me if I wanted to.”

“That’s not nothing.” He moves closer, smile softening. “That’s so much better than nothing.”

“I—” She starts but he shakes his head.

“You don’t have to.” He shakes his head again, hums, his hand warm against the side of her face. “Just be here in the morning.”

“OK.” It’s a timid agreement, a cautious one, but she nods when he doesn’t press her. “We can start there, right?”

“Yeah,” he smiles at her warm and slow, “we can.”


End file.
